


To Keep It All The Year

by profdanglais



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender!Emma, Christmas, Christmas Magic, F/M, and angry, and needs some healing Christmas magic, killian is sad, wee bab Henry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais
Summary: Killian Jones is a broken man, betrayed by everyone and everything he thought he could believe in. He’s all but given up on life until a fateful meeting with bartender Emma Swan and her son Henry gives him a reason to live again, and a chance to redeem his past.All it takes is a little Christmas magic.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 80
Kudos: 287





	1. THE PAST

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katie_Dub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katie_Dub/gifts).



> Not long ago @katie-dub asked me if I was planning to write a Christmas fic. I said sure, I’m doing the CS Secret Santa. And then I thought about it, and I thought actually maybe I’ll write a little something for Katie because she is a delightful human, a kind and supportive friend, and one of the people I feel honoured to have gotten to know over the past year, and she deserves every nice thing. And then I started to think about what she might like and I had IDEAS which of course soon grew far beyond my original concept. And then @thisonesatellite egged me on (with REAL EGGS) and here is the result: an angry and broken Killian, a struggling single mother Emma, a precious wee Henry, and the healing power of Christmas magic. 
> 
> Katie, my dear, I can’t begin to tell you how much your support has meant to me these past few months. You are the loveliest and most loving person, and I hope you enjoy this little offering 💕

He’s still broken when he meets her. Broken and bitter and angry. So, so very angry, the kind of angry that lodges in a man’s chest just below his heart and and rots there. Rots, but doesn’t rot away. The putrid tendrils of it twine and twist through him like the tentacles of the kraken he heard tales of as a boy. They fuse to his bones and mix with his blood and he _welcomes_ them. His is a fury born of betrayal, by everyone and everything he thought he could believe in, and it’s all he has left of his life. It’s all he remembers how to feel. 

He’s come to this place for escape, for peace, but there’s precious little of either to be found. Not here. Not in this neighbourhood of once-lovely houses built tall and proud and so sturdy their ruin takes decades, a slow attrition of cracked windows and crumbling corners and decay that sinks into the walls and consumes them from within. But it’s the best he can afford on what he has that’s _his_ , and he finds that the atmosphere suits him. A broken place for a broken man. 

He doesn’t have to work so for a while he doesn’t, spending his days walking the streets of the city on feet that carry him eventually, inevitably, to the docks. And there he stands, sometimes for hours, watching the horizon and the boats that move across it, stewing in his bitterness. 

He prefers to do his drinking alone on the ratty sofa that doubles as his bed, his only company the blinking neon and the traffic noise, and the smell of pot smoke that wafts from the apartment below. His thoughts are tumultuous then, memories of writhing seas and wind and waves and Liam, of courtrooms and lawyers and _just accept the payout, Commander Jones. They’re the bloody Royal Navy, they have resources you can’t hope to match._

Sometimes though his solitude becomes oppressive, a heavy darkness that sucks the air from his lungs and drives him back onto the streets where he breathes the filthy smog in heaving gulps and then again he walks, among the crowds but not of them, until he finds a bar where people look like they won’t ask questions. 

It’s on one of those days—of all the good days in the year on Christmas Eve—that as he trudges through the greying slush barely a block from his apartment his eye falls upon a door he feels sure he’s never seen before. It’s not in any way a special door, plain brown wood and a foggy window with writing he can’t quite make out, but a jolly little wreath is hung upon it and though he feels about as far removed from the Christmas spirit as any human creature could be, he finds himself pushing it open and going inside. 

The bar he enters is small and worn in the way of well-loved things, the gouged wood of the tables polished to a soft gleam and the cracks in the leather seats carefully mended. Tall rows of bottle-laden shelves line the brick wall behind a carved oak bar that looks far too ancient for this modern land. It takes him all in a rush and flutter of memories back to the England of his childhood, to his mother still untouched by disease and his father not yet embittered by loss, he and Liam free from care as children should be, sneaking from their beds on Christmas Eve and down the back staircase to hide in a toasty corner of the pub and wait for Father Christmas. 

He always awoke on Christmas morning in his bed, presents piled at the foot of it. A small pile, he knows now, but big to his young eyes, and he would wonder aloud how Santa managed to get him and Liam back to bed and deliver their presents as well. And Liam, six years older, would scoff and tell him don’t be stupid, Santa can do anything. 

“What can I get you?” 

The question snaps him back to the present and he realises he’s taken a seat on a leather topped stool at the bar. The woman behind it is smiling at him, a smile he’s certain she gives every patron but its bright warmth soothes him all the same. 

“Rum,” he replies. 

“Any particular kind?” 

“The cheapest you’ve got.” 

She grabs a bottle of a brand he knows is far from the cheapest and pours out a generous measure, places it on a cocktail napkin and slides it in front of him with a look that dares him to make something of it. He accepts her kindness with the most gracious nod he can manage, saluting her with the glass before taking a sip. It goes down smooth and he closes his eyes on a sigh, savouring the spicy richness and mellow burn, a far cry from the second cousin to paint stripper he’s grown accustomed to.

“Thank you,” he says. 

She smiles again. “Merry Christmas.” 

He sips the rum slowly as he falls back into his memories, the earlier ones of brighter days he hasn’t thought of in years, so long they almost feel like they belong to someone else. To the person he was when he was happy, and it surprises him to recall that he _was_ happy, that despite what came later he was once a part of a loving family. It saddens him, how thoroughly he’s forgotten this. A melancholy sort of sadness that makes him long for a different life. 

And that, he thinks, is why he forgot. 

The moment his glass is empty a new one appears at his elbow; although he didn’t speak to the lovely bartender it seems she anticipated him. 

He doesn’t want to stare at her and yet she draws his gaze. There’s a light within her, a warmth that illuminates her golden hair and makes her green eyes glow. He watches from the corner of his eye as she goes about her job, pouring shots and pulling pints, always with a smile and a kind word. She brightens everything she touches, leaves it a bit better than she found it. 

She’s magic, he thinks, then shakes off the foolish thought. 

He’s deep into his second glass when she pulls a phone from her back pocket and her smile falters as she reads the screen; her light seems to dim and flicker, and without a word she turns and runs from the bar. 

She returns moments later with a small boy in her arms, a lad who can’t be much more than three or four. He’s sound asleep against her shoulder and she cradles him protectively as she confronts the dark-haired man who’s emerged from the back office wearing a stern frown, arms crossed over his chest.

“Emma, you know you can’t have him in here,” the man says. 

“What do you want me to do, August, I can’t leave him home alone!” she implores. “He can sleep on the sofa in your office, he won’t be any trouble—” 

“We can’t have child unsupervised in the bar—” 

“He’s not unsupervised if you’re in the office—”

“I’m heading home in half an hour.”

“August, please—”

“I can look after the lad.” He’s not sure what prompts the offer, perhaps because he’s been recalling his own childhood and the patrons in his father’s pub who never minded him under their feet, who entertained him with tales of their lives on the sea and who, he’s come to realise, lifted some of the burden of childcare from his parents’ shoulders so they could do their jobs. Regardless of where it came from, he means it. It seems the least he can do for this remarkable woman. 

The woman—Emma—turns to him with a look of surprise. “Would you?” 

“If the only obstacle is not having anyone to sit with him, then yes, it would be my pleasure.” 

Emma fixes him him with a hard, searching look, and he is conscious of being measured and assessed and weighed in the balance as never before. Then she nods. “What’s your name?” 

“Killian Jones.” 

“Well, Killian Jones, you’d be saving my neck.” 

He smiles. It feels strange on his face after so long an absence, but also right. “It’s a neck worth saving, love.” 

She laughs. “I’m Emma Swan, and this is Henry. We just live across the street, if you could—” 

“Of course.” He grabs his coat and follows Emma as she heads for the door. 

“August, I’ll be back in fifteen,” she calls over her shoulder. 

“Make it ten.” 

—

The cold outside is bitter, biting. It comes as a shock after the cosy warmth of the bar, and he’s glad Emma was being truthful when she said she lived just across the street. Across it and a bit to the left in a building much like Killian’s own, with solid brickwork and elegantly wrought cornices obscured by grime and years of neglect, its pointing crumbling away under the weight of creeping moss. She leads him through the outer door—its lock is broken, he observes—and up a chilly staircase several flights to a door where he’s relieved to see that the lock is both sturdy and new. He’s prepared to bet Emma installed it herself. 

She unlocks it, balancing Henry on her hip in a practiced manoeuvre, and leads him into a tiny apartment that from his cursory observations strikes him as far too familiar for his liking. He follows her into the bedroom where she lays the boy on a child-sized bed in one corner of the cramped room. There is an adult single bed in another corner, along with a sturdy bureau that takes up most of the remaining space and a rickety chair draped in clothes. A few toys litter the floor around Henry’s bed, and Killian is impressed by the way Emma navigates around them even in the dark. 

She tucks the blankets around her son then gently shakes his shoulder until he wakes. 

“Mom?” Henry murmurs groggily. “Has Santa come?”

“Not yet, baby, but he will. You just have to go back to sleep first.” 

“ _You_ woke me up,” Henry points out. Killian feels a grin tug at his lips. Clever lad. 

Emma’s mouth quirks as well. “I know, but Mrs Lucas had an emergency so Killian here is going to look after you until I finish work,” she says. “Is that okay?” 

Henry blinks at Killian and once again he feels his measure being taken by one who knows how to take it. 

“Okay,” says Henry. 

“Good. Just go back to sleep, baby, and if you wake up again Killian will be here.” 

“’kay Mom.” Henry’s eyelids are already drooping. Emma touches Killian lightly on the arm and indicates with a slight jerk of her head that he should follow her again. They retreat to the living room, closing the bedroom door quietly behind them.

“If you need me just call the bar,” Emma says. “The number’s on the fridge and I can be here immediately.” 

“I’m sure everything will be fine, love.” 

She looks at him for a moment with an unreadable expression. He wonders what she sees, and what she thinks of it. 

“Thank you for doing this, Killian,” she says. “Truly.” 

His first impulse is to shrug away her thanks but something deep within him refuses to allow it. She doesn’t often ask for help, of this he’s certain, and although he has no notion of what might have led her to do so he’s deeply honoured that she’s asked it of him. Her gratitude deserves acknowledgement. 

“You’re welcome, Emma,” he replies with another rusty attempt at a smile, rubbing at a spot just below his right ear. “Um, hadn’t you better get back to work? I imagine that boss of yours is counting the seconds until your return.” 

“Probably.” The corners of her lips dance in amusement. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” 

“I’ll be here.” 

—

After she leaves he finds himself at a bit of a loss, unaccustomed to being alone in other people’s living spaces. He doesn’t want to turn on the television for fear of waking Henry, and Emma doesn’t have much in the way of books. With no other means of passing the time at hand he wanders around her apartment, not wishing to snoop but intensely curious about this young woman and her son. 

The curiosity is new.

Their place is on the surface much like his own, the run-down building, the un-insulated windows, the mould in the corners and the general overlay of grime that no amount of scrubbing could ever shift. It’s grim, the sort of grimness that creeps its way into the soul and slowly sucks it dry. 

And yet. There’s plastic on Emma’s windows, a thin film of it attached with double-sided tape and fitted with a hairdryer. Do-it-yourself insulation. She’s built shelves that hide the cracks in the wall and decorated them, with candles she actually burns and small framed pictures—some of which are clearly Henry’s work—plus some other little knickknacks and art projects of his. In the corner is a small Christmas tree decorated with coloured lights and a few bright baubles jumbled alongside ornaments made of uncooked pasta, glued in the shape of stars and painted gold, and cut-up paper snowflakes. She’s creative and clever and so is her lad, and the effect is far homier and more festive than Killian would ever have imagined it could be. 

She’s _trying_ , this Emma. There’s not much she can do with a place like this, but still she tries, and there’s valour in that effort. It brings a lump to Killian’s throat. How long it seems since he stopped trying. 

He jumps as a noise comes from the bedroom, a small cry that lengthens into a wail. 

“Mamaaa,” cries Henry. 

Killian rushes into the bedroom and then stops, unsure of what to do. He sits on the edge of Henry’s bed, his hand hovering over the small form huddled beneath the blankets. 

“Henry? Lad, it’s Killian. Do you remember me?” 

Henry’s tearstained face appears and he snuffles, and rubs the back of his hand across his nose. He stares at Killian for a moment then nods. “I remember,” he says.

Slowly Killian lets his hand fall on the boy’s shoulder, rubbing it in a way he hopes is soothing. “Your mum’s still at work, but I’m here. What’s the matter?” 

“I had a dream.” 

“A scary one?” 

“Yeah.” Henry’s lip quivers. He looks so distraught, and Killian surprises himself by sliding further onto the bed and reaching out his arm. Henry dives immediately beneath it and snuggles against Killian’s chest, burying his face in it and sniffling some more. Killian swallows past the lump in his throat, breathes through the squeezing pressure in his chest at the feel of the small body pressed against his, at the unbelievable honour of this show of trust.

“Do you want to tell me about your dream?” he asks. 

“No,” says Henry, the word muffled against Killian's sweater but no less decisive for it. 

“Oh. Erm... shall I tell you a story then?” 

“Do you know any stories?” Henry looks up at him, wide-eyed. 

“Aye. Sailors are renowned storytellers.” 

“Are you a sailor?” 

“I was.” 

“Okay.” Henry snuggles closer, adjusts himself so that he can look at Killian while still resting against his shoulder. “Tell me a sailor story. Please.” 

Killian weaves him a tale of a ship lost upon uncharted oceans, of a sailor with a broken heart who in a fit of despair cursed a true lovers’ knot and flung it overboard, which heedless act awakened an eldritch beast from out the briny deep. He tells of how the brave sailors fought against the beast to save their ship, and of how they succeeded, though at the cost of their souls.

It’s rather a dark tale for a child perhaps, but one he loved himself at Henry’s age. He can remember sitting before the fire in the pub, curled in Liam’s lap listening, as wide-eyed and rapt as Henry is now, to the old and weathered sailors as they wove it skilfully around him. Henry is enthralled but as the story unfolds his eyelids grow heavier and his body more relaxed, and by the time Killian has finished recounting the sailors’ terrible fate the boy is sound asleep.

Killian tries to ease him back into his bed but Henry clings to him, tiny fist tight on his sweater. With a sigh, Killian settles down and makes himself as comfortable as possible on the small bed, cradling Henry securely beneath his arm and tucking the blankets around them both. He closes his eyes, just to rest them, he thinks, and moments later he falls soundly asleep. 


	2. THE PRESENT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter of my Christmas gift for the brilliant @katie-dub who noticed straight away, because she IS so brilliant, that the title is a quote from A Christmas Carol. This is deliberate, and not just because A Christmas Carol is one of my favourite books and one that my family used to (and still does, via Skype) read out loud together on the days leading up to every Christmas since I was about 9 or 10. It’s because this story is Killian’s Christmas carol, without the ghosts of past, present, or future, but certainly with some other forms of supernatural interference and intervention for good in his life.

Killian awakes to the sound of shrieks, and it takes a minute of confusion and breathless panic for him to realise they are shrieks of laughter. 

He is alone in Henry’s bed, bright, early-morning sunlight slanting across him from the room’s lone window. The door is open a crack and he can hear Henry and Emma in the living room laughing and chattering, their voices light and happy.

Closing his eyes and forcing his muscles to relax, he breathes deliberately, evenly, until his heart rate slows and the tightness in his chest eases. He rises carefully from the bed, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his sore neck, arching his back and wincing at the way his joints audibly creak before slipping silently through the door. 

Henry and Emma are sitting together on the living room floor, bits of wrapping paper and ribbon strewn around them. They are playing with a new toy train, rolling it back and forth between them, laughing uproariously. They have the same laugh, Killian thinks, loud and boisterous and full of joy. He knows he should go, leave them to their Christmas revels, but instead he hovers in the bedroom doorway, arrested by the sight and sound of them. They are sweet and pure and beautiful, and he never expected to find any of those things in this place. 

He swallows over the lump that’s back in his throat and forces himself to move, tiptoeing forward and picking up his coat from where it is draped over a kitchen chair then heading towards the door. 

“You leaving so soon?” 

“Ah.” He turns a bit sheepishly to find Emma regarding him with raised eyebrows, one hand on her hip. “I shouldn’t have stayed this long. I apologise for trespassing on your hospitality.” 

“You didn’t. I could have woken you but you looked like you could use the rest.” 

“Indeed.” He rolls his shoulders again. “Aside from a crick in my neck I feel better rested than I have in some time. Thank you, love.” 

“No problem. Do you, um,” she shifts her weight, stuffs her hand into her back pocket “do you want some coffee before you go?” 

“Oh, I couldn’t trouble you.” 

“Please.” She shoots a glance at his face and then away. “I—I made extra for you.” 

The lump in his throat threatens to choke him. “All right, then,” he says hoarsely. “Thank you.” 

She smiles. “How do you take it?” 

“Black.” 

He returns his coat to the back of the chair and hovers awkwardly for a moment until Emma hands him a steaming mug and motions for him to sit down. He does and she takes the other chair, settling into it with a sigh and picking up her mug. Killian cradles his in both hands, inhales deeply then takes a long sip. The coffee is rich and smooth and he hums, savouring the flavour. “This is excellent,” he says with a smile. 

The smile comes much more easily this morning. 

Emma doesn’t reply and he looks over to find her watching him with a small smile of her own, just teasing the corners of her mouth. 

“What?” he asks her. “Have I got something on my nose?” 

“No.” She laughs. “I was just looking at you.” An enchanting rose-coloured flush creeps across her cheekbones. “I guess you’re used to that.” 

“Not at all.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Aye. I often feel quite invisible in this city. Why does that surprise you?”

“Well, because you’re— I mean, you’re so— you know.” She waves her hand in a vague gesture. The look on her face suggests she’s on to his game, but he is genuinely baffled. 

“On the contrary love, I’ve no idea what you mean,” he says. “I’m so what?” 

She gives a small and surprisingly elegant snort. “Come on, you must know how good looking you are.” She throws the statement down like a challenge, daring him to deny it. 

He feels a hot flush bloom on his own face. “Maybe once, perhaps, before I started to go grey.” He gestures at his temples. “But now…” 

“Now you’d just be called a silver fox,” she retorts. “And your face is still, you know, _fine_.” 

He laughs, a short, sharp sound that falls oddly on his ears, unexpected but but far from unwelcome. “I’m not too proud to admit that there was once a time when I used that face to my advantage,” he says. “But that was long ago.” He pauses, struggles against the familiar bile rising in his chest. “I look at myself now and all I see are the ravages of guilt and the wear of the life I’ve lived,” he says, staring into the black depths of the coffee. Bitterness drips from these words, this confession, and he _hates_ it. It has no business being here, with Emma, on this day. His darkness has no right to touch her. 

Firmly he forces it down and drags back the smile, as near as he can feign it. “I’ve been through rather a lot these past few years,” he murmurs, risking a glance at her, dreading what he might see on her face. Her expression is soft, eyes brimming with empathy and not a drop of judgement, and he suddenly fears he might cry. 

A crash sounds from the living room and they both turn to see Henry, collapsed in a fit of giggles, his new train capsized from what was apparently a collision with the sofa leg. 

“Henry, please wait at least twenty-four hours before you destroy that thing,” says Emma, attempting and wholly failing to sound stern. 

Killian clears his throat. “What have you got there, lad?” he asks. 

“It’s a train!” cries Henry, holding up the toy for Killian to see. Killian downs the rest of his coffee in one burning, bracing gulp and goes to sit next to Henry on the living room floor. 

“Aye, and a splendid one it is too,” he says, taking it and subjecting it to solemn examination. “A steam train?” 

“Yeah! How did you know?” 

“When I was about your age, my father took me to see a real steam train,” says Killian. “It came through our village on a special run and I got to sit in the engineer’s seat and wear his striped cap.” 

“That’s what I’m gonna do!” Henry is all but vibrating with excitement. “For my other present! Mom says we can go to the museum and there’s a train there I can sit in!” 

Killian smiles at his enthusiasm. “It’s an experience you won’t forget,” he says. He puts the train on the floor and pushes it back towards Henry, then gets to his feet. 

“Well, lass,” he says, turning to Emma. “I’m grateful for the coffee but I should really—” 

“What are you doing later?” 

“Er—later?” 

“For Christmas dinner,” she clarifies. “Any plans?” 

“No.” Unless sitting at home with a bottle of rum counts as a plan, he thinks. 

“Would you like to have dinner with us?” she asks. “Me and Henry?”

“I—” Killian hesitates. He knows he should refuse. Already he’s overstayed his welcome to a shameful degree, but the prospect of spending more time in Emma and Henry’s company is painfully tempting. 

“Oh please, Killian!” says Henry. “We’re having ham and pie for dessert!” 

“Who can resist ham and pie?” teases Emma. 

Killian looks at their faces, both wearing the same hopeful, expectant look, and gives in to the yearning in his chest. “I’d love to,” he says. “Thank you.” 

A glorious smile spreads across Emma’s face. “Come back around two,” she says. 

—

Returning to his apartment Killian finds it far colder and darker than he recalls. Or perhaps he’s simply never noticed. He looks around with a small frown, thinking how very barren the place seems. There’s nothing of _him_ in this space, no personal touches at all. He feels both glad and deeply saddened by this. He wants nothing of himself in this miserable hole, but also he wonders if enough of him remains to leave a mark on it. On anywhere. 

He takes a brief shower under the weak, lukewarm spray then quickly towels himself dry, in which process he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and pauses to examine it. He’d been rather vain about his appearance, once, taking the time each morning to style his hair into calculated dishevelment and keeping his body lean and firm. Now his stomach is soft and his arms undefined, the skin hanging loosely from his bones. The lines fanning out from his eyes have deepened, joined by new ones across his forehead and around his mouth. His hair has grey not just at the temples but scattered throughout, with a streak of silver rising up from his forehead that he supposes might be considered rather dashing. His complexion, always pale, has gone sallow, and there are dark smudges beneath his eyes. 

He cannot fathom how a woman like Emma could look at him and see an attractive man. He cannot fathom how it never occurred to him that she might find him attractive. It’s not _so_ many years since he would have taken her interest very much for granted. How many years? Three? Four? 

He wonders how old Emma is. She can’t be much more than twenty-two or three. He’s more than ten years her senior. Far too old to be thinking of her as anything other than a lovely young woman who’s chosen to offer him kindness. 

With a start he realises he’s standing naked in his icy bathroom, goose pimples prickling his skin. He gives himself a final rubdown with the towel then hurries to dress, digging out a clean and ironed shirt from the back of his closet and a pair of jeans without holes. On a whim he pulls his suitcase down from the shelf and takes out one of his old waistcoats. It still fits, barely, and he feels a warm glow of pleasure as he runs his hands down the fine brocade. 

He scrubs a washcloth over his face and does his best to style his hair with his fingers and then he is, he supposes, as ready as he’ll ever be. 

It’s too early to go back to Emma’s but there’s nothing to do in his flat except drink so he decides to take a walk. The morning is bright and crisp, cold but in a cleaner way than the foggy damp of night before. It’s the cold of brittle icicles and sharp-edged snowflakes that collect into fluffy piles just right for forming into balls, the kind that nips at your nose and ears but leaves you warm within your coat. It’s bracing cold, and Killian finds himself walking at a brisk pace, enjoying the crunch of the frozen slush beneath his feet and the blinding blue of the sky. 

Another burst of whimsy—and if you can’t be whimsical on Christmas Day, when can you? he thinks, with a wry grin—has him turning a corner into a street he can’t recall ever noticing before. It’s a small street, narrow and lined with shops, each boasting brightly painted signs and engaging displays in their wide and frosty windows. The air seems different here, he thinks, and the light, and then his attention is caught by a magnificent train set in the window of one of the shops. 

He wishes he had something to bring today, some small token of his gratitude. A toy for Henry perhaps, and a trinket for Emma. Something to brighten up their little flat a bit more, something Henry can play with that will also help him learn. He’s such a bright lad, and Emma clearly has a taste for beautiful things. But it’s Christmas Day and all the lovely little stores are closed. 

All but one. One solitary pale blue door with a red-lettered sign hung upon it that reads “Come in we’re OPEN.” 

Tentatively he pushes open the door and slips through it. It’s a florist and gift shop, and he’s astonished by the variety of colours and scents that surround him. There must be every sort of flower here, plus shelf upon shelf of toys and knickknacks. It seems impossible that so much could fit into such a small space. 

“Hello?” he calls. 

A man appears from a door at the back of the shop. A tall man, lean but strong with broad shoulders and a friendly grin. He doesn’t strike Killian at all as the sort of man who would run a shop like this. 

“Can I help you?” says the man. 

“Erm, yes. I’m uh, looking for a gift. It’s rather last minute, but—” 

“Last minute is the reason we’re open on Christmas Day, mate,” says the man jovially. His blue eyes twinkle merrily as he regards Killian with a peculiar sort of fondness. “No need to explain. Who is it you’re buying for?” 

“Ah. It’s, well, not precisely a friend. A young woman and her son, the lad about four I imagine. I’m having dinner with them this afternoon and I feel rather a prat not bringing anything. Do you think… do you think she’d like some flowers?”

“Women always like flowers,” laughs the man. “You can’t go wrong.” He begins to move around the shop, selecting blossoms and buds and leaves and assembling them into a bouquet. “Tell me about this woman,” he says as he works. 

“Well, she’s… she’s rather remarkable. Warm and clever and tough and far too kind. I think perhaps she pities me a little.” Killian isn’t sure what’s loosened his tongue but the urge to unburden himself to this odd florist is one he finds he can’t resist. 

“What makes you say that? She’s invited you for dinner, hasn’t she?” 

“Out of pity.” 

“Surely not. Perhaps she simply likes you.” 

“She hardly knows me.” 

“Yet you like her.” 

“Aye. I suppose I do.” 

The florist shifts his flowers into the crook of one elbow and claps Killian on the shoulder in a way that makes his heart clench with the almost-memory of something, a feeling so achingly familiar and yet he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. “Mate, I will put together a bouquet for this remarkable woman that will dazzle her, and for her son perhaps he might enjoy a sailing ship?”

“A ship?” Killian blinks in surprise. A ship is in fact precisely what he had in mind for Henry, the perfect gift for a curious boy who loves both steam trains and sailor stories.

The florist reaches up to a high shelf and takes down a toy ship, handing it to Killian with a triumphant grin. It’s made of wood, in the full-rigged style of the old classic sailing vessels, minutely detailed and exquisitely rendered. “Can he… play with this?” asks Killian doubtfully.

“Of course! Fully functional in the bathtub, and more resilient than she looks. Now about that bouquet.” 

As the florist arranges his selections into an artful bouquet and secures them with tissue paper and ribbon, Killian wanders around the shop, browsing the flowers and gifts. There are soft toys and porcelain figurines, cards and puzzles and magnets, and in the corner a display of jolly little Christmas wreaths exactly like the one he saw on the door of Emma’s bar last night, with a small sign proclaiming them handmade with love. He smiles to himself. That wreath was what drew him to the bar, what led to his meeting Emma. And now the same person who made it was making a bouquet for him to give her. How peculiar life could be. 

He makes his way around to the back of the shop just as the florist is putting the finishing touches on the bouquet. It’s huge, and stunningly gorgeous, and as he hands it to Killian his cheery smile turns bittersweet. 

“You strike me as a man who’s seen some difficult times,” he says. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so. I hope you won’t allow the past to blind you to the possibilities of the present, or the future.” 

Killian feels as though he ought to object to this presumption and prying into his personal life. But the man’s smile is warm despite the ache behind it and so strangely caring, and there’s that familiarity that tickles again just at the corner of Killian’s consciousness and prompts him to return the smile along with thanks and a sincere promise that he’ll try. 

“Good,” says the florist, smiling even harder. “Good.” He swallows audibly and blinks misty eyes, and when he shakes Killian’s hand he grips it almost painfully, clasping it between both of his own. “Goodbye, br—mate,” he says. “Happy Christmas.” 

“Happy Christmas,” Killian replies, then blinks in astonishment at finding himself quite suddenly back on the familiar city streets, not far from the bar. Emma’s house is easily visible from where he’s standing. He has no recollection of leaving the shop or even of paying for the bouquet and the ship, both now gorgeously wrapped and in his arms. But he must have done. Mustn’t he? 

He pulls out his phone to see what time it is. Three minutes to two, though he could have sworn that it was no later than ten thirty when he left his own place. How much time did he spend in the shop? And who _was_ it that florist reminded him of? He shakes his head as he slips his phone back into his pocket. _More things in heaven and earth, Horatio_ , he thinks, and starts walking towards Emma’s house, where the pleasure of seeing her again, and her blushing delight at the flowers, and Henry’s shrieks of joy at the ship, all contrive to wipe the odd little street and the odder florist wholly from his mind. 

It’s quite a long time before he remembers them again. 

—

There’s no tub in Emma’s bathroom but she produces a large, wide plastic container big enough for the toy ship to sail in, and Killian spends and enjoyable and quite splashy hour playing with Henry while she finishes preparing the meal. 

She calls them when it’s nearly ready and Henry runs to set the table, something Killian gathers is his regular mealtime chore. They have only the two chairs so Emma drags in the one from the bedroom for Henry, reminding him to be careful and not to rock in it, and soon they are seated and waiting as Emma takes the ham from the oven. 

It’s not a large ham, but the way Henry’s eyes widen when she sets it on the table anyone would think it was the whole pig. 

“Wow,” he says, clapping his hands. “How much are we saving for leftovers?” 

“None,” says Emma. 

“None?” 

“Nope. It’s Christmas. Today we eat as much as we like.” 

“Ohhh,” Henry breathes, his eyes like saucers as Emma piles his plate with ham and mashed potatoes and roasted carrots and some garlicky greens Killian doesn’t recognise. 

She places a similarly laden plate in front of him and he finds to his surprise that his stomach rumbles in anticipation. He can’t recall the last time he had a full meal, or indeed the desire to eat one. 

Henry waits, quivering with impatience, until Emma has served Killian and herself and then she sits and gives him a nod and he dives in. 

“Mmmm,” he says through a mouthful of ham and potato, “so good, Mom.” 

“Chew it first before you speak,” says Emma, in a tone that suggests this is something she’s said before. 

Henry chews and swallows hugely. “It’s good,” he repeats. 

“It is good,” Killian agrees, and Emma flushes with pleasure. 

“I’m not much of a cook,” she says with a shrug. “But I got the recipe off the internet and I guess it turned out okay.” 

“More than okay.” Killian has to force _himself_ not to talk with his mouth full. “It’s delicious, Emma.” 

Emma bites her lip and ducks her head, focuses on her own plate. “Thank you,” she whispers. 

Henry and Killian each have seconds of ham and potatoes, though Killian observes, with an amused exchange of glances with Emma, that the boy has a valiant struggle to finish off his last few mouthfuls. When both their plates are clean and neither could manage another bite they retreat to the living room to play a game of Candy Land, at which Henry sails to a triumphant victory, Killian never having played the game before, while Emma clears the table and gets the pie ready. 

“Are you sure I can’t help you, love?” Killian calls, as Henry hops his little plastic gingerbread man along the rainbow path. 

“Nope, it’s all under control,” she replies. “You’re actually most helpful keeping Henry occupied so I can get everything done.” 

The pie is pumpkin, an American innovation at which Killian has always looked rather askance, and has only tried once during his years in this country. It’s not an experience he would have chosen to repeat but he’s determined to choke down the whole slice and a second one besides if it will make Emma smile. 

To his surprise the pie is not just palatable but actually good, creamy and delicately spiced, nothing like the limp and watery concoction he tried before. The first piece goes down easily accompanied by another cup of her excellent coffee, and when she offers him a second he accepts gladly despite the protests of his stomach. 

“You know, you say you’re not much of a cook, but this is delightful,” he tells her. “Everything has been.” 

“I guess I can follow a recipe,” she says in a dismissive tone. Killian frowns. This shrugging off of praise seems so ingrained she’s not even aware she does it. 

“Mom’s a great cook,” says Henry, confirming his suspicions. “She just thinks she’s not.” 

Emma opens her mouth to argue but Killian beats her to it. “From the mouths of babes, love,” he says.

“I guess,” replies Emma, avoiding his eyes. She seems so embarrassed he lets the subject drop, polishing off his pie and coffee in silence. Emma moves to take his plate but he snatches it away and insists on clearing the table and washing the plates and cups while Emma and Henry play another round of Candy Land—a far more hotly contested one—and then it’s time for Henry to get ready for bed. He washes his face and hands and brushes his teeth and puts on his pyjamas, then returns to the living room to fling his arms around Killian and squeeze him tightly. 

“I’m glad you came today,” he says. “Thank you for the ship, I love it _so_ much.”

“You’re welcome, Henry.” The lump is back in Killian’s throat and he has to force the words around it. “I had a wonderful time.” 

—

When Emma returns from putting Henry to bed Killian is standing in the living room with his hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. He turns when he hears her approach, with a smile that almost feels natural now, when she inspires it. 

“Do you want some more coffee?” she asks with a smile of her own and a nervous quaver in her voice. 

He doesn’t really, but he does want to sit with her for a while before he has to go back out into the cold of his flat and his life and so he accepts. They sit on the sofa with their knees inches apart and sip in silence for a moment. 

“You must be wondering what kind of horrible mother leaves her kid with a total stranger she found in a bar,” says Emma, startling him. 

“Of course not,” he replies. 

She gives him a skeptical look. 

“Well, speaking as the total stranger in question, I was just glad I could help,” he says. “I figured you must have had your reasons for needing me.” 

She nods. “I’ve had _so_ many problems with childcare lately. They just never seem to end, no matter what I do. August is just about fed up with it, and I _need_ this job, for a while longer at least. I—”

“Emma, you don’t have to explain. It’s plain to see what a happy and healthy lad Henry is, and how much he loves you. You’re a wonderful mother, and I’m sure you only do what’s best for him.” 

“I try,” she says. “I try so hard but it never seems like enough, and I can’t help worrying about him. He has has these nightmares...” 

“Surely all children do?” 

“His seem so bad though. I just—I want him _out_ of this place,” she bursts out, suddenly angry. “If he has to grow up here I just don’t know what it’ll do to him. The schools in this district are terrible, there’s drugs everywhere and the kids are so rough. And when I think of sending him out into that, my sweet little boy...” She trails off, brushing tears angrily from her cheeks as Killian grips his coffee in a white-knuckled fist and feels thoroughly useless. Emma takes a deep breath and he swears he can _see_ her pulling herself together. “Henry can’t stay here,” she continues, a hard edge of determination now in her voice. “But the only way I can get him out is to finish college and the only way I can do that is by keeping this job. If I have to find another one farther away it will just make things harder, and—”

“Love, you really don’t need to explain,” says Killian gently. “You’re doing the best you can and that’s all that can be asked of anyone.”

It occurs to him that he’s being kinder to Emma than he’s ever been to himself. She deserves it, though, whereas he has fully earned his tribulations. Emma has done nothing but fight to give her son the best life she can manage, holding down a job and apparently studying as well, raising Henry to be sweet and respectful and curious and happy. She doesn’t deserve to be trapped in this place, neither of them do. They don’t deserve to have their futures stolen from them by their circumstances or the harsh cruelties of the economic and societal structures they are forced to live in. They deserve far, far more than what they’ve got and it strikes Killian like the proverbial thunderbolt that it is within his power to change their lives _greatly_ for the better. 

He sets his coffee cup down on the floor with a hand that has begun to tremble and looks at Emma. 

“Can I tell you a story, love?” he asks. 

“A sailor story?” she asks with small smile. 

“In a manner of speaking.” Something in his tone seems to catch her attention and she sets her own cup down and turns to look at him with solemn attention. 

He takes a deep breath. “Not long ago, though it seems a lifetime now, I was an officer in the British Royal Navy,” he begins. 

“Wow.” 

“Aye.” He can’t help smiling at her expression. “I was the commander of a destroyer, effectively the first mate under my brother Liam, who was the captain. We worked well together, he was an outstanding leader and I would have followed him anywhere. We were on that ship for about three years, side by side through quite a few adventures, and then—” he swallows hard, squeezes his eyes shut, “one night there was a storm… not an unusual thing on the sea, of course, and though this was a bad one it wasn’t so bad we couldn’t have managed to weather it.”

He pauses as the memories surge up and over him just as the waves did on that horrible night and he’s _drowning_ in them again, fighting for air as the water flings him across the deck and fills his lungs and crushes him mercilessly beneath its weight, and he feels again the stark terror and helplessness in the face of forces he cannot hope to control. The terror presses down on him and all he can think of is getting out, getting _away_ —and then Emma takes his hand. 

“Hey,” she says softly, lacing their fingers together. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

Killian grips her hand, far too tightly he’s sure, but she feels like a lifeline. He focuses on breathing, in and out, slowly, letting the air fill his lungs and then expelling it until his heart rate slows and the panic ebbs away. 

He doesn’t release her hand, and she makes no attempt to extract it. 

Instead they sit, fingers entwined, as he haltingly tells her of the glitch in the steering controls he noticed and reported through the proper channels when their ship was in dock for routine maintenance. How investigation into his report revealed a serious fault that would be time consuming and expensive to repair, and how the Naval Command, wanting the ship back in service as soon as possible, dismissed it and instructed Liam to take her out again regardless. How Liam knew corners had been cut but believed his commanders when they claimed everything that was necessary to keep the ship and crew safe had been done. 

“He didn’t tell me,” Killian chokes. “Not until it was too late. When we were caught in the storm and the ship wouldn’t steer and we were at the mercy of the waves… Liam was killed. I couldn’t stop it, I tried but I _couldn’t_ … the wave came… and I nearly went overboard… the ship was wrecked with only a handful of survivors… and then… the navy put the blame on Liam.” His lip curls as the old, bitter fury rises up in him. “They said he was _negligent_ , putting the ship back in service without carrying out the proper maintenance. And they _knew_ that was a lie, and what’s more they knew that _I_ knew it. I wanted to take it to a court martial to clear Liam’s name but every attempt I made was blocked by some higher-up. I was informed that if I continued to press the issue I could face a court martial of my own for insubordination, and then they offered me a deal. An honourable discharge and a financial settlement. For my _silence._ ” He spits the word. “And I took it.” 

“Oh, Killian.” 

“I thought, if I can’t exonerate Liam I can at least gouge the bloody navy for an obscene amount of money, enough to make them _feel_ it. I thought it might be cathartic.” He snorts. “It wasn’t. That damned money has been a weight around my neck ever since. I haven’t touched a penny of it and I never will. I can’t bear to. It’s blood money, my brother’s blood, and as far as I’m concerned it can rot in the bank forever.” He pauses, draws a steadying breath. “As far as I _was_ concerned.” 

He looks up at her, holding her gaze as his thumb moves gently across her knuckles. “I want to give it to you, Emma. You and Henry.” 

She gasps. “Oh, I couldn’t—” 

“Yes you could. I’m serious when I say I’ll never spend it. There’s nothing I could buy that would bring my brother back, and nothing I could use it for that wouldn’t remind me of him. Except this.” 

“But I—”

“I know it’s a huge thing to ask of you, but please, love. Please take it. I don’t deserve to have it and you don’t deserve the life you’re living. Let me make this right. Let me do something good, just one good thing in Liam’s memory.”

He has a thought, and smiles at his own whimsy. “Think of it as a Christmas miracle.” 

Emma shakes her head, looking shell-shocked. “It certainly is a Christmas something,” she replies. “I—I don’t really know what to think.” 

“That’s more than understandable.” 

“Killian when I—when I told you about myself and our situation I wasn’t—I didn’t expect—” 

“Of course you didn’t. How could you possibly have known that the strange man you invited to Christmas dinner was sitting on a pile of cash?” He attempts to tease her to lighten the mood and is gratified when she laughs, albeit with an edge of hysteria. 

“True,” she says. She looks down at their hands, palms pressed together and fingers tangled, and slowly brings her other one up to curl around the back of his. Her hands are soft and he tries not to notice the way their touch makes his skin tingle. 

“Please let me do this, Emma,” he pleads, adding his other hand to the pile to stop himself reaching up to caress her cheek. “For Henry, and for yourself. And for me. You’d be doing me a great favour.” She looks up, into his eyes and beyond them, into the very depths of him. He holds his breath for what feels like eternity and then she nods. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

—

They meet at the bank the following morning. The procedure is quick and surprisingly painless—papers signed and wire transfers made, business cards exchanged and financial management advice offered—and it’s not yet eleven o’clock when they find themselves back out on the snowy street staring awkwardly at each other. 

Killian almost offers her his number, almost begs her to stay in touch. But she’s a wealthy woman now, with a degree to finish and a child to care for. She has a whole new life before her, one with no place in it for a broken-down sailor with a drinking problem. 

The money is hers, completely. No strings are attached to it and he doesn’t want her feeling in any way obligated to him, or like she has to make any justifications for the way she spends it. He doesn’t want her wasting thoughts on him when she’ll have far better and happier things to think about. And despite the painful knot that tightens in his chest at the thought of never seeing her again he feels lighter than he has in years. He feels free, and he wants that same freedom for her. 

He doesn’t need to see her, he tells himself. Not so long as he knows she’s taken care of. That she’s happy.

“Well.” He clears his throat. “That’s that then.” 

“Yeah I guess it is. Killian, I—” 

“Please.” He cuts her off. “Please don’t say anything.” He lets his eyes caress her face, fixes it for forever in his memory. “Goodbye, Emma,” he says. “Have a wonderful life.” 

He turns and walks away, losing himself in the shifting crowd of people, never once looking back. 

-


	3. THE FUTURE

Killian moves out of his apartment that very afternoon. He can’t bear to spend another moment there. He needs a fresh start in a new place, one that will encourage him to be better rather than indulging the worst of him. 

Everything he owns, every single thing, fits into a large satchel and a medium-sized suitcase. Packing it all takes less than an hour. Killian drops his key into the landlord’s mailbox and heads across town to a guesthouse he found with a quick internet search, not a great place but his finances are limited and it’s still better than that apartment. There’s an actual bed, for a start, and part of him is tempted to crawl into it and drink until his chest stops aching and he no longer sees the crushed look in Emma’s eyes each time he closes his own, but he has made promises to himself and he intends to keep them. 

So instead he falls back on the least damaging of his old crutches and heads out for a walk. The guesthouse is a bit rough around the edges but the neighbourhood whose western boundary it marks is a vast improvement over his old one. There’s an elegance and dignity in the slightly run-down buildings here, like they’ve aged gracefully and in comfort without any of the desperation and squalor that characterised his old place. They’ve kept their heads up, even through hard times, and they haven’t given in. A lesson lurks in there somewhere, he thinks. 

He’s been wandering for about half an hour when his attention is caught by a door. Not a particularly remarkable door, but has a jolly little Christmas wreath hung upon it which brings a smile to Killian’s face. Something about those little wreaths always draws him in, he thinks. Something he can’t quite put his finger on...

The door is made of wide wooden planks painted a deep forest green and boasts an old-fashioned brass knocker in the shape of a roaring lion. It belongs to what appears to be a small bookshop, and as Killian pushes it open he feels a stirring of eagerness that he hasn’t felt in years. He can’t remember the last time he read a good book. Something layered and complex, he thinks, with a well-crafted world that he can dig into and lose himself for a while. 

The shop is surprisingly spacious, with row upon row of tall wooden bookshelves lined up straight as soldiers along its walls and a broad central aisle leading to the till and a small cafe at the back. Twin spiral staircases rise up on each side to a mezzanine where he can see more shelves and a cosy reading area with overstuffed sofas and armchairs and a few scattered beanbags of the perfect size for children. Killian walks slowly down the centre aisle, aware his mouth is hanging open and barely resisting the urge to spin around, gaping in awe. Were he asked to give a description of his ideal bookshop it would be precisely this, he thinks, from the aged patina on the shelves to the fluffy grey cat curled on a cushion in the window, to the truly dizzying array of books. It is magnificent. 

“Can I help you find anything?” Killian shakes himself from his reverie and turns to see a petite brunette in towering heels smiling a friendly smile. 

“Ah, no thank you, lass,” he replies, “I’m just br—you know what, actually, yes. You can.”

He explains what sort of book he’s after and the woman—Belle, according to her name tag—leads him around the shop in search of it. She makes excellent recommendations, a fair number of which he’s already read, but after an enjoyable hour or so Killian has a small armload of books he can’t wait to crack open and perhaps, he hopes, a friend. 

After he pays for them he and Belle stand at the till for another ten minutes or so, chatting amiably. Killian formally introduces himself and informs Belle that he’s just moved to the neighbourhood and is out exploring. He’s just about to ask if she knows a good place to eat when he spots the small sign taped to the cash register. 

“Are you hiring?” he says in surprise.

“I am. I could use an assistant three or four days a week,” says Belle. “You interested?” 

“I might be,” Killian replies. He’ll need a job to afford the new life he intends to build for himself, he thinks, and working in this lovely little shop with Belle would be a dream come true. 

“Any retail experience?” she asks.

“None. But I’m a fast learner and fairly widely read.” 

“I’ll say,” says Belle wryly. “Okay, let’s give it a try. I can start you on—” she names an hourly wage that has Killian’s eyes widening. 

“Is that the standard market rate for a bookshop assistant?” 

“Nope.” Belle’s voice is cheerful and also makes it clear she doesn’t intend to answer any questions on the subject.

“Er—okay. Well, that would be more than satisfactory.” Enough to give him the new beginning he needs, he thinks. More than. 

Belle nods. “When can you start?” 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Perfect.” 

—

Belle lives above the bookshop, in a two-bedroom flat that she claims can get a little lonely. She claims this a week into the new year when she learns that Killian is looking for a place to live, and insists on showing him the spare room that very minute. 

Her flat is tidy but comfortable and the room she shows him plainly furnished, with polished hardwood floors and plaster walls painted a warm ivory. A large chest of drawers takes up one corner and in another is a metal framed bed spread with a quilt that he’s sure is handmade. There’s a single wide window framed by soft yellow curtains that turn the afternoon light golden and a single framed poster on the wall, of Waterhouse’s _Miranda_. Killian stares at the painting for some time, thinking it should probably upset him. Instead he feels soothed, by the room’s gentle simplicity and by the shipwreck safely tucked away in the brushstrokes of an oil painting. He moves in the next day. 

He and Belle get on splendidly. Their habits mesh in a comfortable way, both being meticulously tidy early risers, equally content to spend their evenings in heated argument about books as in the silent companionship of reading or watching television. Killian almost wishes their easy friendship could develop into something more, though it does occur to him that he’s never had a woman as just a friend before and perhaps this is a thing that might do him some good. 

That and he still dreams of soft golden hair, and green eyes that see into his soul. 

He begins to eat regular healthy meals, sharing the cooking duties with Belle, and after a month or so of that he joins a gym. He still goes on his long, rambling walks but far less frequently than before, using them as an opportunity to explore new neighbourhoods rather than a desperate attempt to escape his demons and he never, never stops at the docks. 

He also starts seeing a therapist, on Belle’s gentle suggestion after one too many nights of being woken up by his nightmares. She can recommend one personally, she confesses, for the very same reason that she is able to pay him so well. The bookshop is financed by _hush money—_ she spits the words—her lavish divorce settlement from a man who controlled and abused her for years and when she finally managed to leave him tracked her down and nearly killed her. She grips Killian’s hand tightly as she tells him this, tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks, yet there is a ring of triumph in her voice as she explains how he signed over more than half his assets to her in exchange for her promise not to prosecute, or sell tales of his abuse to the press. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it,” she says. “Maybe I should have exposed him instead, or pressed charges. But he could weather bad press or bribe his way out of jail time while it will take him _years_ to build his business back up again. Decades, even. And meanwhile I have my shop. And my freedom.” 

Belle knows as well as Killian does how heavily tainted money can weigh on person’s conscience, and that the only way to bear its weight is by turning it to something good. She’s a survivor, just like him. Just like Emma. 

Slowly, so slowly, Killian feels the parts of himself he thought were broken beyond repair begin to mend, and every day he focuses on that healing. He nourishes his body with exercise and good food and he nourishes his mind with books and conversation. He nourishes his soul as well, with his therapy sessions and with the bookshop’s weekly children’s story time, which Belle insists he take charge of after catching him watching wistfully from behind a shelf as she sat surrounded by a semicircle of rapt faces, reading an adventure book. 

He was thinking of Henry. 

He thinks of Henry often, and of course of Emma. Every time he rambles through a new part of the city he wonders if they are living there, perhaps in one of the sprawling houses with soft green lawns in the residential areas, or maybe in an airy loft in one of the edgier, artier neighbourhoods. He hopes that wherever they are they’ve found a true home of their own, with security and comfort and reliable childcare for Henry. Emma no longer needs to work so she could study full time if she wished, or do something else entirely. She wouldn’t strictly speaking _need_ to do anything, but if Killian knows her—and despite the short duration of their acquaintance he’s quite certain he does—she will want to keep studying, for her own satisfaction and to find a career that suits her. Emma Swan could never be content sitting around all day doing nothing. She would want to do some good in the world, regardless of her personal circumstances. The kindness she showed to a strange man in a bar when she had next to nothing of her own was proof enough of that. 

It hurts to think of them but it’s a good sort of pain, a gentle, bittersweet ache that warms his heart, nothing like the tearing agony he felt for so many years whenever he thought of Liam. Thoughts of Emma and Henry inspire him, keep him moving steadily along this new path he’s chosen to tread. Though he’s certain he’ll never see either of them again he wants to live his life in a way that honours his feelings for them. 

He doesn’t go back to the bar where he and Emma met, not often. It’s just a place to drink without the magic her presence lent it, and drinking is a thing he’s trying to do less of these days. But the following Christmas Eve he finds himself back in his old neighbourhood standing before the plain brown door. There’s a jolly little Christmas wreath hung upon it, and Killian knows by now that he’s powerless in the face of those wreaths. He lets it draw him in through the door and over to a stool at the bar where he orders the expensive rum Emma gave him last year and sips it slowly as the memories that infuse the very air of this place both warm and pain him. He’ll allow himself this, he thinks, just this one small lapse. He’s worked hard all year, he can have one evening of self pity. His Christmas gift to himself. 

“Hey, sailor.” 

The voice is impossible and yet he hears it, turns towards it in astonishment then scrambles to his feet. 

“Emma!” he gasps. He stares at her, drinks in the sight of her, of the face that’s haunted his dreams for a year lit up by a bright smile. “What—what are—I had no idea you’d be here.” 

“I almost wasn’t,” she replies. “I was at a Christmas party across town, actually, but then I just had the strangest urge to come here and so here I am.” 

“It’s wonderful to see you, love.” His astonishment ebbs and gives way to a fierce and fearsome joy. He can’t believe she’s here, right in front of him and _real,_ and so lovely he aches to look at her. “How are you? How’s Henry?” 

“Henry’s great. I’m great. We’re great.” She laughs. 

“That’s... well, it’s great.” His smile is beginning to hurt his cheeks, but he could no more stop smiling it than he could make the Earth spin backwards. 

“It is,” she agrees. “Listen, um, can we sit down somewhere?” 

“Of course. Can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah.” Something shifts in her smile, sharpens it in a way that steals his breath. “I’ll have a rum.” 

He orders one for her and another for himself and they sit together in a small, round booth in the corner of the bar. It’s cosy and intimate and it envelops them, making Killian’s heart pound and his mouth go dry. 

Emma seems unfazed, giving him a cool once-over as he slides in beside her on the leather seat. There’s a new confidence in her demeanour now, the kind of quiet assurance that forms in people who answer to no one but themselves. It sits well on her, he thinks. Comfortably, like it was always waiting for her to slip it on.

“You look good,” she tells him. 

“Um.” He feels himself flush and gulps some rum to wet his throat. “Thank you. You look lovely, but then you always did.” 

She observes him in silence for a moment, sipping her own drink. “I looked for you, you know,” she says. 

“You did?” 

“I did. Do you know how many Killian Joneses there are in the phone book?” 

“Er—no.”

“Zero,” she declares. “Including you.” 

“Ah. Well I don’t really—” 

“But,” she interrupts, “as it turns out, I’m pretty good at finding people, even when they don’t want to be found. I found you, eventually. In that bookstore where you work.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I was going to come in but you, ah, weren’t alone. I saw you through the window, standing with a woman. Laughing.” She stares into her glass. “I’d never seen you laugh like that before. Or at all.” 

“A woman?” Killian frowns in confusion. “What woman?” 

“A really pretty one with long brown hair,” says Emma quietly. “Cute dress, very petite. You looked... close.” 

“Belle,” he says. “My boss and flatmate.” 

“Flatmate?” Emma repeats with an odd note in her voice. Her eyes flicker up to him then back to her glass. 

“Er—my roommate,” he amends. 

“I know what a flatmate is, Killian.” 

“Ah. Yes of course, I just, er—” 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” 

He’s taken aback by the non-sequitur, and the shy smile that accompanies it. The shy smile and the eyes shining with something that makes his already galloping heart pound harder still. “Well, it’s Christmas Day,” he replies weakly. 

“That’s also a thing I know.” 

“I was just planning to have a meal with Belle, maybe watch some Christmas movies,” he says. “Nothing special.” 

“Why don’t you and Belle come to my house instead? For dinner?” 

“Oh, well, I—” 

“Come on, you have to,” she cajoles. “Henry would never forgive me if he found out I’d seen you and not invited you. He talks about you all the time.” 

“He does?” 

“He does.” 

Killian takes another gulp of rum, emptying the glass. He feels dizzy at this turn of events, almost afraid that they will turn out to be nothing more than another fevered dream. Surreptitiously he pinches his thigh and when he feels the sharp prick of pain he risks a look at Emma. She’s still smiling, that same hopeful, expectant smile he’d been so powerless against one year ago. “Well, I’ll have to check with Belle but I’m sure she’ll agree,” he says. “I’ve—mentioned you and Henry once or twice myself, she’ll be over the moon to meet you both.” 

Emma’s smile turns radiant. “Give me your number and I’ll text you the address,” she says. He does, and a moment later his phone dings with a new message. Her address he recognises from his rambles as belonging to a part of town that’s nice but not ostentatious, with comfortable family homes and plenty of parks and very good schools. He thinks about Emma and Henry living there and feels a warm glow of sheer delight. It’s exactly what he hoped for, for them. 

“I have to get home,” says Emma. “I told Henry’s babysitter I’d be back by midnight. But—you will come over tomorrow, won’t you? About noon? You promise?” 

Killian smiles. “You have my word. I’ll see you then.” 

—

Belle agrees to have dinner at Emma’s with as much enthusiasm as he predicted, practically dancing with excitement at the prospect.

“The mythical Emma and Henry!” she sings. “I feel like I’m about to meet a unicorn, or Santa himself.” 

Killian’s stomach is dancing too, with anxiety and eagerness and _hope_. Foolish hope, he tells himself firmly, but it ricochets around his insides nonetheless and refuses to be quashed. He walked away from Emma a year ago so she could have the freedom to make her own choices and she chose to find him, to invite him back into her life. He’s not certain quite what that means but he thinks—he _hopes_ — that at the very least he won't have to go another whole year without seeing her and Henry. That thought alone is enough to make his Christmas bright.

As he stands in the shower with the hot water flowing over him he thinks about how very different his life is than it was just a year ago. The fact that his shower is hot and the water plentiful is the very least of the changes. He no longer has nightmares, no longer feels haunted by his past or fears he might be swallowed up by bleak despair. The dark moods still come from time to time but he is prepared for them now, equipped to weather them without turning to self-destruction. He feels healthier than he has since his navy days, physically as well as mentally. His paunch is gone, replaced with firm muscle, and though he’ll never be as ripped as some of the younger men he works out alongside, he’s toned and strong and that’s enough for him. His complexion now has a ruddy glow, especially when he returns from one of his walks, and he’s begun to take more care with his appearance again, keeping his hair trimmed in a flattering style and investing in a nicer wardrobe. 

He gets out of the shower and towels himself dry, then dresses in some of his new garments: charcoal trousers and a black sweater over a shirt with a soft tonal pattern, pale purple and blue against dove grey. He wonders what Emma will think of his new clothes, what she will think of all the changes this past year has wrought in him. He wonders if she’s thought of him the way he’s thought of her. 

He wonders what he can bring to dinner this afternoon. There’s a bottle of good wine in the cupboard that he and Belle planned to have with their own Christmas meal and of course many things in the bookshop he’s sure Emma and Henry would love. That should be fine for gifts but still something troubles him, an itchy sort of tingle at the back of his mind, like he’s forgetting something vital. What was it that he brought for them last year? He frowns as he tries to remember. The ship for Henry, that was it, and flowers for Emma from that odd little shop, the one with the florist who reminded him of... of... 

_Bloody hell._

Killian reels, gripping his bedpost for balance as memories from the year before come flooding back, clear and perfect as though they happened only yesterday. It couldn’t be, he thinks, it’s _impossible_ , and how could he not have noticed at the time? How could he not have _seen?_

 _Magic, little brother._

“Killian!” Belle raps sharply on the half-open door of his bedroom, her tone of voice suggesting she’s been calling him for some time. “Are you ready to go? It’s nearly half past eleven.”

“Aye, love.” He breathes in deeply and stands upright. “Be right there.”

They go down to the shop where Killian selects several books for Henry, some of which are slightly above his age group—because a child should have a library that builds towards the future—and, remembering the shelves in her old apartment, a picture frame for Emma made of delicately carved rosewood. He wraps them carefully and rings them up on his employee account as Belle calls them a cab. It’s not far at all to Emma’s house but when Killian suggests they walk Belle informs him crisply that while he might enjoy a snowy stroll across twelve city blocks her shoes would not and takes out her phone. 

The quiet Christmas streets make the ride a short one, but Killian is glad of even a few minutes of peace to sit and to think and spends most of the journey staring out the window at the snowy trees and lawns and attempting to sort through the chaos in his mind. 

“Why didn’t you put the wreath on the door this year?” he asks Belle. 

“What wreath?” She turns to him with a small frown. 

“Last year there was a Christmas wreath on the door of the bookshop,” he replies. “A small one, made of evergreen and holly with pinecones and cinnamon sticks and a big red bow. It’s what caught my attention as I was walking by, why I went inside.”

Belle shakes her head. “There wasn’t any wreath, Killian, though that’s a lovely idea. Maybe we can get one for next year.” 

“Aye. I know just the shop to get it from,” he mutters, and then the cab pulls up to Emma’s house. 

It’s a charming little house, two storeys of dark red brick with slate blue trim on the windows and on the wide porch where comfortable looking wicker furniture and outdoor toys are all jumbled together. There’s a snowman on the lawn, jaunty and quite pleased with himself in his red and green striped scarf and an actual top hat, surrounded by piled-up and solidly-packed mounds of snow and the gruesome remains of what was evidently a long and hard-fought snowball battle. 

The mat lying at the foot of the front door reads _Welcome! Everything is fine_ in soothing green lettering and Killian and Belle exchange a grin as they ring the bell. From within they can hear the sound of voices and then the door swings open and Emma appears, looking festive in skinny jeans and a green sweater with the cartoon face of Rudolph on the front, his nose large and round and glittery red. There’s a plastic holly sprig behind her ear and a bright smile on her face. 

“Hey!” she says. “Come in! You must be Belle, I’m Emma. You can hang your coats just here.” 

They do so, shrugging the coats off and handing Emma the wine and gifts which she accepts with a laugh that holds a touch of surprise. She leads them down a short hallway and into a cosy living room with a plush sofa along the wall and a tall and brightly decorated tree in the window. A fire blazes beneath a wooden mantelpiece where Christmas stockings labeled _Henry_ and _Emma_ still hang, empty now, and bits of wrapping paper and ribbon still cling to the rug in front of it. Killian has just enough time to observe these things before a miniature whirlwind bursts through the door and barrels into his solar plexus. 

“Killian!” Henry cries, squeezing him in a tight hug. “Mom said you were coming but I couldn’t believe it. I missed you. Why didn’t you ever come back?”

Killian’s chest feels as tight as Henry’s arms as he struggles for breath and for the words to explain his conduct. “I’m sorry, Henry, I just—I—I had some things I needed to sort out with myself, before I could be good company to others.”

“But you’re here now, right?” Henry pulls back and looks up at him with brown eyes as wide and trusting as ever. “And you won’t go away again?” 

Killian hesitates. He doesn’t want to presume, but then again Emma did come to find him. Surely it wasn’t overstepping to say he would visit Henry from time to time? He senses her watching him and looks up, catching her eye with an imploring look. She nods and he swallows hard before returning it. 

“Aye, lad,” he says, stroking Henry’s hair with a hand that’s not quite steady. “I won’t go away again.”

“Good,” says Henry solemnly, and then his face lights up. “Guess what? I have my own room now!” he cries. “Do you want to see it?” 

“I do indeed.” Killian glances at Belle who waves him away. “Go,” she says. “I’ll stay here and chat with Emma.” 

Henry’s room has bunk beds with Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and an overflowing toy chest in one corner. There’s a small bookshelf as well, with the beginnings of a fine library already on it, and taking pride of place in the centre of the very top shelf is the ship Killian gave him last Christmas. 

“I play with it in the tub. We have a tub now,” says Henry when he notices Killian looking at the ship. “Mom made sure we did but she says I can’t play in it every day because I splash too much and take too long, but on Saturdays I can play as long as I want.” 

Killian takes a moment before replying. “What else do you like to play with?” he asks hoarsely. 

Henry shows off his toys and books and though Killian is anything but an expert in parenting he can see that they’ve been carefully chosen for both fun and enrichment, and that while they are plentiful there aren’t too many for one child to use. Emma hasn’t spoiled him, or herself, despite how easily she could have. 

When they head back downstairs they find Emma and Belle laughing together on the sofa, each with a cup of hot chocolate in hand and a plate of Christmas cookies on the coffee table in front of them. 

“Hey!” says Henry indignantly. “I want hot chocolate!” 

Emma gives him a stern look and he flushes. “Please,” he adds. 

“There’s some for you in the kitchen,” she says, setting her mug down on the table and getting up. “Would you like some too, Killian?” 

“Yes, thank you,” he replies. 

They drink their chocolate and munch their cookies and conversation flows easily and merrily among them. Killian is amazed at how well Emma and Belle have hit it off and Henry is ‘on his Christmas behaviour,’ Emma says with a laugh, sitting on the floor playing with his trains and listening, occasionally piping up with a question or comment. Belle and Killian tell them all about the bookshop and Emma promises to bring Henry there as soon as possible. 

“For the story time!” cries Henry, eyes wide at the prospect, and then Belle suggests he might like to open the presents they brought him. He squeals with delight at the new books, and Killian gets so caught up in telling him about them that he doesn’t notice Emma quietly unwrap the picture frame until he hears her soft “Oh!” 

He turns to see her staring at it with misty eyes and an expression that makes his heart clench. “I know how you love your pictures,” he says softly. “I remember.” 

“Henry, what do you say we find a place for those books on your shelves,” says Belle. “Then maybe you can show me your room and the ship Killian gave you last year?”

She ushers Henry from the room, leaving Killian and Emma alone, staring at each other. 

“Emma—” he begins, just as she says “Killian—” and they share a nervous laugh. 

“Me first, please,” she says, and he nods. 

“Of course, love.” 

She licks her lips and takes a steadying breath before she speaks. “When you walked away last year,” she begins, “outside the bank, I was so hurt. I know why you did it—I _think_ I know—but it still hurt and for a while I was angry. I thought—I thought we had a connection, and then for you to just leave like that, I—” She shakes her head. “Well, I tried to forget about you and move on, build this new life for myself and Henry, and I did build it but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All year I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, and I _missed_ you. That may sound dumb since we only spent a day together, but that’s how I feel.” 

“It doesn’t sound dumb at all,” he says. “I missed you too.” 

She gives a small, choking laugh. “I thought you didn’t,” she says. “When I saw you and Belle in the bookstore, I thought, well, he’s forgotten all about you.” 

“I definitely did not,” he replies. “I couldn’t. I thought about you too, all year.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh, aye.” He attempts a smile. “Every day.”

Her eyes are liquid soft and their expression makes his blood hum. “I don’t want to go through that again next year,” she says. “I want to… to see you, and not—not just as a friend.” 

“Emma—” 

“And don’t say you’re too old! I know that’s what you’re going to say.” 

“It is true.” 

“It’s _not_. You can’t be more than what, thirty-four, thirty-five?” 

“Thirty-five.” 

“I’m twenty-three.” 

“That’s—” 

“But I don’t _care_ about that, Killian. I like your silver hair and that you’ve had experience of the world. Sometimes I feel like I missed out on so much, getting pregnant so young and since then my whole life has been Henry and trying to get through college. And now I have all this money and I know there’s so much I can do with it, and places I can go, but I don’t really know where to start.”

“Love—” 

“Not that I want you to be a tour guide or like an adviser or something, I want—fuck, I’m making a mess of this.” 

Killian realises he’s holding his breath, forces himself to exhale and draw in fresh air. “Emma,” he says firmly, “there’s nothing I’d like more than to have a place in your life, and Henry’s, in whatever capacity you wish.” 

“ _Whatever_ capacity?” 

“Aye.” 

“So if I said I wanted you to be my—” she takes a deep breath—“my date for a New Year’s Eve party I’m invited to, you’d agree?” 

“It would be my honour.” 

“And then if I asked you out to dinner?” she continues. “My treat.” 

He laughs. “I know a restaurant I think you’d love.” 

“And afterwards? If I invited you back here for some coffee?” 

“You do make excellent coffee, I don’t think I could refuse.” 

“Then if I wanted to go out again, someplace else?” 

“You could choose the restaurant, and I would pay.” 

“Then maybe a movie sometime?” 

“At the old cinema near the bookshop.” 

“And what— what if, after a little while, I wanted to have coffee again in the morning? You’d—you’d stay and have that second cup with me?” 

“I would love nothing more.” 

She nods. “That’s the capacity I wish.” 

She’s so close now that he can count the flecks of gold in her eyes and he realises that her hand is on his thigh and his is on her hip, and then she closes the remaining distance between them and kisses him. He moans and pulls her closer, his other hand tangling in her hair as hers curls around his neck and he loses himself in the taste of chocolate and cinnamon on her tongue and the promise of her lips on his. The promise of a future, _their_ future, together. 

There’s a clattering noise of footsteps and loud voices on the stairs and they break apart. Killian leans his forehead against Emma’s, revelling in the sight of her dazed and happy smile, and silently thanks Belle for her discretion. Emma stands and pulls him to his feet, and when Henry and Belle appear she beams at them both. 

“I think dinner’s nearly ready,” she says. “Henry, let’s go set the table.” 

Belle gives Killian a smirk that’s thoroughly ruined by the delight dancing in her eyes. “You look happy,” she says. “And a bit shell-shocked.” 

“Aye, to both those things.” 

“And you appear to be wearing lipstick,” she teases, handing him a tissue and grinning at his blush. He wipes his mouth and when he offers it back to her she takes his hand as well. 

“I’m so glad for you,” she says. “Merry Christmas, Killian. The first of many, I think.” 

Killian looks into the dining room where Emma and Henry are laughing as he sets the table and she lays the food out on it. “Aye,” he says gruffly. “I think it will be. I hope.” 

-


	4. THE BEGINNING OF IT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS!! Okay, it’s a bit early, but have one anyway. 
> 
> The final chapter of this Christmas tale for @katie-dub is basically just fluff and magic. Friends and family and Christmas parties and presents and happy endings. To be read wrapped in a warm blanket with a cup of tea. I hope you enjoy it!

The sun rises at 7.13 am on the 25th of December in the city where they live, but Henry, who normally needs to be prised off his pillows and hauled bodily from his bed, is up well before it. The eastern sky has barely begun to lighten when he comes flying into his parents’ room, leaping onto their bed and wiggling into the narrow space between them, his elbow digging into Killian’s stomach. 

“Ugh,” Killian grunts, shifting to give Henry more room. “Lad—” 

“Get up get up get up!” cries Henry, shaking Emma’s shoulder until she lifts her head from the pillow. “Santa came!” 

“Did you go downstairs already?” groans Emma. 

“I didn’t go all the way down, I just looked to see if Santa came. And he did! Get up, c’mon let’s go!” 

“All right, all right,” says Emma, rubbing her eyes. “I’m awake.” 

Henry scrambles over Killian and runs from the room, off to hover just on the edge of the landing quivering impatiently until the slowpoke grownups got their act together. 

Emma whimpers and rolls onto Killian’s chest, nestling her face into the crook of his neck. “It’s so early,” she whines. 

It’s not far off the time Killian would normally get up, making it a good hour and a half before Emma prefers to open her eyes. He strokes her hair sympathetically. “Christmas morning, love,” he soothes. “It’s only once a year. Tomorrow you can sleep as long as you like.” 

“That doesn’t help me today,” she grumbles, and looks up at him with a still-sleepy smile. “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas, darling,” he replies, kissing her softly. She hums in response and he pulls her closer. 

“Are you guys _coming?_ ” shouts Henry from the landing, and Emma snickers. 

Killian grins and combs his fingers through her hair. “Shall we go see what Santa brought?” he asks. 

“The suspense is killing me,” she deadpans. She drops a quick peck on his lips then rolls out of bed, grabbing a fluffy bathrobe to slip on over her pajamas. Killian follows suit and they leave the room together, out to where Henry is dancing at the top of the stairs. 

“Ready?” he asks. 

“Go on down,” says Emma. “Carefully—” she calls after him as he leaps down the stairs three at a time. 

When they get to the living room Henry is hovering between the stockings and the tree. 

“Stockings first,” says Killian. “Then I think your mum and I are going to need some coffee before we open the rest.” 

Henry carefully takes down the stocking labelled _Emma_ and the one that says _Killian_ , and hands each to the appropriate recipient before diving into his own. They are stuffed full of chocolate and socks as Christmas stockings tend to be, along with one or two more exciting items to make the rest worthwhile. “Ah, yes!” Henry cries, pulling out a Bumblebee transformer. “This is just the one I wanted!” 

Killian and Emma exchange a relieved glance. 

“Santa knows what you want,” says Emma, removing a small velvet jeweller’s box from her own stocking. Within is a silver locket containing a picture of Henry. She gasps and a soft smile curves her lips as she traces her finger over its delicate edge. 

“Indeed he does,” Killian agrees, taking out the antique compass he’s been eyeing for the past few months in the window of a little shop near his work. He didn’t think Emma noticed. 

He looks up to find her smiling at him, her eyes misty. “Since Santa’s not here, I might thank you for this instead,” she whispers, kissing him. 

“Aye,” he growls against her mouth. “And I suspect he may have had some help procuring this compass.” 

“I possibly passed on a suggestion or two,” she says. 

Once the stockings are empty, Henry plays with his transformer while Emma makes coffee and Killian tidies up the first wave of present detritus. She returns with two steaming mugs and a glass of orange juice for Henry, and after all three have taken several strengthening gulps she takes Henry’s glass and gives him the go-ahead to attack the presents beneath the tree. 

Henry makes sure to hand a present to each of them before diving into the largest one of his own, a wooden sled in an old-fashioned style that from his shouts of joy is also just the one he wanted. 

When the presents have all been opened Emma goes to make some breakfast while Killian clears away the wrapping paper and other packaging and sternly ensures that Henry takes all his new toys, books, and other gifts up to his room and finds a place for them. 

Breakfast is pancakes, sprinkled with little red and green M&Ms for Emma and Henry and plain for Killian, who protests that they’ve both already finished the chocolate in their stockings and that’s far too much sugar for first thing in the morning, Christmas Day or no. Emma and Henry exchange identical eye rolls and fill their mouths with huge bites of chocolate pancake as Killian sighs and cuts his into precise squares with exaggerated patience. 

After breakfast Killian takes Henry to the park to try out his new sled and to give Emma time to take a nap and get ready for the rest of the day. The three of them are due at Belle’s at one for Christmas dinner. Belle insisted, though her apartment is much smaller than their house, saying that Ruby—her new roommate—has gone all-out with the Christmas decorations and she doesn’t want to waste them. She flushed pink as she said this, and Killian had to hide his grin. He has his suspicions about this ‘new roommate.’ 

The park closest to their house has a tallish hill with a smooth slope, perfect for sledding. It’s not too crowded, though there are a few other kids there giving their Christmas-present sleds a test run. Killian keeps half an eye on Henry as he chats to the other parents, marvelling a bit at how comfortable it feels even after all his years of minimal social interaction. Henry calls him and he allows himself to be cajoled into going down the hill on the back of the sled, doing his best to hold on as Henry steers them until they reach the steep dip at the bottom and overbalance, tumbling from the sled and into a snowdrift. He lands on his back and sinks into the snow with a groan, Henry’s shrieks of laughter ringing in his ears. 

AfterHenry has gone down the hill and back up again to his satisfaction and is thoroughly snow-covered, they head home to find Emma rested and showered. She laughs when she sees them, brushes the snow from Killian’s hair and kisses the reddened tip of his nose as Henry peels off his snowsuit, then takes the boy upstairs to get him dressed and ready while Killian has a quick shower and gets ready himself. 

He turns the water up as hot as he can stand to chase the chill from his old bones, filling the bathroom with comforting steam. When he gets out he swipes his hand across the foggy mirror and for the third year in a row stands in his bathroom on Christmas Day and takes a hard look at himself and his life.

There are more lines on his face than were there last year, he thinks, but they are lines drawn by laughter and softened by happiness, and though his hair continues to go greyer by the day if ever he dares complain Emma runs her fingers through it and tells him to stop moaning, there are people who would pay good money for highlights like that. 

He no longer works at the bookshop. Instead he is the director of the community library which six months ago Emma inaugurated in the neighbourhood where they used to live, as part of her project to revitalise the area using her money. 

“It’s just so much money,” she said to him with a small laugh one late winter afternoon not quite a year before. “I didn’t really understand how much until I tried to spend it. I bought everything I could think of and it’s barely made a dent. And I just—I feel like I don’t need it anymore. I have my house and my school all paid for, and a car and a college fund for Henry and some investments which just bring _more_ in, and even if I set aside way more than I think I’ll need for savings and retirement and a nice vacation every year there’s still _so much left_.” She laughed again, with a slight manic edge. 

“So what do you want to do with it, love?” he asked. “I sense you have ideas.” 

“I do,” she replied. “One in particular that I’d like your opinion on. Not because I need your approval,” she said quickly, heading off his protest. “I just want to know if you think this is something I can do.”

He nodded. “Tell me.” 

"At first I thought about giving it to someone else, or even several people. People I knew in our old neighbourhood, to help them escape that place the way it helped me. But then it occurred to me that it would be more useful to make the place somewhere people didn’t need to escape. That would help everybody.” She gave him a hesitant look. “What do you think?” 

Killian smiled. “I think that’s an absolutely brilliant idea.”

“And you really think I can mange it?” 

“Of course you can. You improve everything you touch, Emma. And I’ve yet to see you fail.” 

With Killian’s support and the aid of some skilful research from Belle, Emma started a non-profit foundation for community development and revitalisation. The ink was barely dry on the official forms when she launched herself into her first project. 

She bought out slum lords and renovated their properties, instituted rent controls and long-term tenancies, provided low-interest loan options to people who wished to buy their apartments, and set up co-ops so they could manage the buildings themselves. She offered initiatives to businesses who took over the empty shops and employed local people, and even larger ones to local people who wished to start their own businesses. She set up a fund for the neighbourhood schools for renovations and expansion and salaries for new teachers, free lunches for all students and enough school supplies so teachers never had to buy their own. She endowed a hospital. 

Killian is so proud of her he can barely contain it. 

The neighbourhood is still very much a work in progress, but slowly the vision of what it will be when all that work is done is starting to emerge. New shops and offices open almost daily. The streets are cleaner and the people on them smile when they pass each other, and say hello. A sense of community is beginning to form, one Killian can actually see growing stronger every day in his library among the patrons he has come to know by name. Once again, he reflects, Emma has saved a thing he thought unsalvageable. A broken old sailor one year, an entire neighbourhood the next. And that’s only the beginning. 

The foundation has recently begun to attract attention from the press and subsequently, inevitably, from investors. Emma laughed at first and said she’s still trying to spend the money she has, but when Killian pointed out that with greater investment she could expand to other parts of the city she got a gleam in her eye that’s still there. 

“Let’s get through stage one,” she said. “Then we’ll consider investors.” But Killian could see the cogs turning in her mind and he smiled to himself. There was no stopping his Emma once she got an idea in her head.

He realises he’s still standing in the bathroom staring at his reflection in the mirror and gives himself a little shake. Quickly he dries off and gets dressed in some soft woollen trousers and the new sweater Emma gave him for Christmas. She comes into the bedroom just as he’s pulling it on and when he tugs it over his head he sees her smiling at him. 

“I knew that was just the right shade to bring out your eyes,” she says with satisfaction, brushing her hands across his shoulders and adjusting the collar of his paisley shirt. 

“You have a good eye, love,” he says, catching her around the waist and pulling her close. 

“I’ve still got to get dressed,” she protests feebly as he kisses her. “And if you mess up my hair I’ll have to redo it.” 

“I like it best a bit messy,” he growls, brushing the golden curls aside so he can kiss her neck. She pushes at his shoulder but he can hear her breath hitching in her throat and he nips at her collarbone. 

“Don’t you dare leave a mark,” she gasps. “I can’t wear a scarf with this dress.” He soothes the nip with his tongue and she sighs. “We’re gonna be late.” 

Her fingers curl into his hair even as she speaks the words and he trails back up her neck to capture her lips in a kiss that has her moaning, and breathless when he finally breaks it. 

“Well you’d better get a move on, then,” he smirks. “I’ll go make sure Henry’s ready. 

A fluffy slipper hits the back of his head as he leaves the bedroom and he laughs all the way down the stairs. 

—

They arrive at Belle’s slightly late. “I was just about to call you,” she says mock-severely as she opens the door. 

“Sorry,” Killian says, kissing her cheek. “We got held up.” 

“Hmmm,” says Belle, raising an eyebrow at the flush on Emma’s cheeks. “I bet you did. You remember Ruby.” She indicates the tall and gorgeous woman standing behind her and grinning ear to ear. 

“Aye. Nice to see you again, lass.” 

“And you.” Ruby curls the tip of her tongue around the corner of her lips as her gaze glides slowly down his body. “You look better every time I see you.” 

He returns her expert leer with a very fine one of his own. “As do you,” he purrs, waggling his eyebrows. “That’s one hell of a dress.” 

Belle and Emma observe this byplay with identical half-amused, half-exasperated expressions. “Are you done?” sighs Emma. “I want to see these Christmas decorations I’ve heard so much about, Ruby.” 

“Well you’d better come in then.” 

The little flat is indeed bursting with festive cheer, with a huge Christmas tree in one corner of the living room, tall enough that its star scrapes the ceiling and decorated to the hilt, and every available surface covered in glittering tinsel and blinking lights. There’s even a Santa in his sleigh with all his reindeer, hanging from the ceiling. 

“Wow!” cries Henry “We have _got_ to do this next year, Mom!” 

“Um.” Emma exchanges a glance with Killian. “We’ll see, baby.” 

—

“I know it’s a bit much,” Belle whispers to Killian a few minutes later as they sit together on the couch with Henry playing at their feet. Emma and Ruby are in the kitchen preparing some hot chocolate. “But Ruby’s never had a place of her own before and she was so excited to decorate I didn't have the heart to stop her.” 

“Don't apologise, love,” he replies. “The decorations are charming, and so is Ruby.” He glances at her. “So, are you ever planning to tell me the truth about what’s going on with you two?” 

She flushes. “There’s nothing going on, we’re roommates.” 

“Roommates in the very literal sense of the word,” he retorts. “I had a peek in my old bedroom and it’s basically a glorified closet. If she’s sleeping in there I’ll eat my new sweater.” 

“All _right_ , okay, we’re together,” huffs Belle. 

“ _Together_ together?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Yes. But it’s still really new and I don’t want to jinx it, so I didn’t say anything. To anyone, not just you.” She pauses and smiles a soft little smile. “I’m hopeful though,” she says. “It feels really right.” 

He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. “I'm so glad,” he says. “You look happier than I’ve ever seen you.” 

“Do I?” 

“Aye, you do. _And_ you’re wearing two shades of lipstick.” 

—

They spend the afternoon and into the evening with Belle and Ruby, eating and drinking and opening presents, singing Christmas carols and catching up on the latest goings on in their lives. Killian tells stories from his library and Belle from her bookstore, Henry eagerly recounts what he’s learning in school, and Emma talks animatedly about her plans for the foundation in the new year. Ruby works in her grandmother’s diner, she tells them, a job she likes well enough, though she’s getting a bit frustrated with her granny’s old-fashioned style and looking for something new. 

“Have you ever considered opening one of your own?” Emma asks her. “There’s a place not far from the library that would be perfect for a diner.” 

Ruby’s eyes light up. “Are you serious?” 

Emma digs out a business card from her bag and hands it to her. “Absolutely. Give me a call after the holidays and we’ll go have a look at it.” 

As the evening progresses Henry fights valiantly to keep his eyes open but it’s a losing battle, and when he falls asleep curled up on the sofa with his head in Killian’s lap, Emma decides it’s time they went home and calls them a cab. 

The ride is brief and quiet, the three of them cuddled up together in the back seat, and when they get home Killian carries a still-sleeping Henry inside and up to his bedroom. He gets the lad undressed and into his pajamas, tucks him into bed and presses a kiss to his forehead. Henry’s eyes blink open. 

“Killian?” he says. 

“Aye, lad.” 

“Are we home?” 

“We are. Go back to sleep.” 

Henry yawns and snuggles deeper into his pillow. “Can we go sledding again tomorrow?” 

“Yes, if you want.” 

“And Mom can come too?” 

“I’m sure she’d love to.” 

Henry’s eyes drift shut and Killian begins to sneak away, stopping in the doorway when Henry calls his name again. 

“Killian?” 

He sighs. “Yes, Henry?” 

“Are you gonna ask her soon?” 

Killian thinks of the ring tucked away in the back of his sock drawer, awaiting its moment. “Aye, lad, very soon.” 

“Do it soon,” says Henry, yawning again. “I want to call you Dad.” 

He says that so casually, Killian thinks, like they aren’t some of the most precious words he’s ever heard. Right up there with the _I love yous_ Emma used to whisper against his skin when she thought he was asleep, and the shy but certain one she finally said to his face. And soon, hopefully, her _I do._

“I want that too,” he says gruffly. “Now go to sleep.” 

He heads downstairs where he finds Emma with her stockinged feet up on the coffee table, lost in thought. 

“Hey,” he says, stroking her hair. “I thought you were going to make some coffee?” 

“Yeah,” she replies. “I was just thinking.” 

He sits next to her. “About what, love?”

“Christmases past,” she says with a laugh. “About how different everything is now than it was just two years ago, and all the things that had to come together to make it possible. I mean, do you ever think about how unlikely it was that you and I met? Like all the little things that had to fall into place to bring us together?”

“Well, we were living in the same neighbourhood.” 

“Yeah, but our paths never crossed until you came into the bar two years ago. Why did you go there that night when you’d never been in before?” 

“I don't know really. I guess I never noticed it until then.” He frowns for a moment, remembering. “It was the wreath that did it.” 

“The wreath?” 

“Aye. There was a wreath, a Christmas wreath, hanging on the door. It caught my attention and I just decided to go in.” He’s about to mention the identical wreath he saw on the bookstore’s door the following year when Emma speaks. 

“That’s so weird.” She shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’d forgotten until just now.” 

“Forgotten what?” 

“The Christmas party I was at last year, before I went to the bar and found you, there was a wreath there that caught my eye. It had cinnamon sticks on it.” She laughs. “You know how I love cinnamon, though usually I prefer it in my drinks and not on my walls.” Her laugh fades into a small frown. “I actually said that, now that I think about it, to this guy who was there. God, how did I forget about all of this?” 

Killian feels himself go very still. “What guy?” he asks. 

“I don’t know, I never got his name. He was a bit taller than you, curly hair. Eyes kind of like yours, that same light blue. Also an accent. He kind of reminded me of you, actually. Huh.” 

Killian swallows. “What did he say to you?” 

“Not much, just that cinnamon sticks on Christmas wreaths were pretty common in some places. I said it seemed like a waste of good spices and he laughed. He said he’d made that wreath himself and he’d take my advice into consideration in the future.” She shrugs. “I liked him, but it wasn’t a particularly profound conversation.” 

She pauses then, the frown deepening between her eyes. “But then he—he gave me the weirdest look, sort of—fond, and sad. He said that some people believe cinnamon can be used to summon true love and I started to laugh, but then I was suddenly... _overcome_ by the certainty that you were at the bar and that it might be my only chance to ever see you again. So I left the party and went to the bar and there you were. And then somehow I forgot all about all of this until you mentioned the wreath just now. How bizarre is that?” 

“Very,” Killian croaks, his throat thick with unshed tears. He pulls Emma into his arms and holds her tight, too tightly probably but she doesn’t protest. 

“Hey,” she says gently. “Are you okay?” 

“Aye, love. Just thinking about how close we came to missing each other. It’s not a thing I really care to contemplate. If we hadn’t met I just—I don’t know where I’d be.” _If I’d be._

“I know just what you mean.” Her arms tighten around him and they sit for a moment, wrapped in each other and in fate and love and magic. 

Eventually they pull apart, with soft kisses and lingering touches to prolong the embrace. “Why don’t you go make that coffee,” he says, stroking her cheek with his fingertips. “I’ll get a fire started.” 

“Okay.” 

Killian watches until the kitchen door swings shut behind her and then he goes to the fireplace, sinks to his knees on the hearth and lets his head fall into his hands. He is shaking, almost sobbing, tears slipping from his eyes to roll slowly down his cheeks. Sad tears and grateful ones, salty and bittersweet, aching with both loss and joy.

Because he _knows_ now who that florist was, in the little shop on the street he’s never been able to find again. He suspected before but now he’s certain. He has no notion of how or why, and he doesn’t care to find one. Killian has always considered himself a man of science and reason, but this he accepts on pure faith: That somehow, in some way his long-dead brother reached out and gave him the push he needed to pull himself together. To find love and friends and a new family. To save his life. 

He remembers quite suddenly a line from one of his favourite books, one his brother used to read out loud to him each Christmas. “Heaven and the Christmas time be praised for this,” he murmurs, and it is truly a prayer. “I say this on my knees, Liam. On my knees.”

When Emma returns with the coffee the fire is crackling cheerfully and he is calm again. He takes the mugs from her and sets them on the table, then wraps her in his arms, resting his cheek on her hair. 

“Merry Christmas, my love,” he says. 

She snuggles into his chest with a happy sigh. “Merry Christmas.” 

-


End file.
